As Good As It Gets
by Christoph Andretti
Summary: Meet Mark. He is an anal-retentive, selfish, apathetic, and maybe mentally ill young man in Chicago aspiring to be a pilot. After angering the wrong girl after a failed date, he gets sent a Punk!England UNIT, with more to come . Will his life fall apart, or will these people be a welcome addition to a somewhat turbulent life. One thing is for sure. Heads are gonna roll. Buckle up!
1. Chapter 1

"Okay, so how about just 10 percent of it."

"Just be nice Mark. Give him 20!"

The dimly lit restaurant was filled with the noise of clattering plates on the mahogany wood tables. Clashing with the soft rock music billowing from the ceiling speakers, Mark Warner was starting to get a major headache that would rival the Greek god Zeus's as he gave birth to six of his offspring. Although, Mark had to admit Zeus only had to deal with that and not the siren of mirror breaking that sat before him, masked with murky brown ponytailed hair and a thin Midwestern accent.

"I'm just saying 10 percent sounds about right.

"Not with what you've done to him. Im surprised he hasn't poisened our food.

"We'll, if he did we wouldn't have to worry about tipping him would we?"

The young woman groaned and rolled her eyes before glaring back at her unfortunate date.

"Can I just say-."

"Look, 10 percent is what he should get." Mark interrupted. "I mean that's all you should get. That pasta was overcooked and-."

"No it wasn't. It was fine." The date interrupted.

"All he did was carry these empty plates over to the kitchen and then he-."

"But it doesn't matter, Mark. He was still nice." She said.

"So was Hitler to Eva Braun. What're you saying?"

The young man in his early twenties. with dark brown, shoulder-length, and barely spiky hair with dark green eyes sighed for what seemed to be the millionth time tonight. After wiping his mouth, he turned his face from looking at an elderly couple diagonally across from them to the displeasured and antagonistic girl in front of him, wearing an annoyed smirk on her face before speaking with an undertone of anger.

"How would you feel if you're parents didn't have this money, and you had to work all day in some stupid bar and grill and just put up with people like you all day. Then you came home and still had some weird equations you had no idea about, and, oh I don't know, maybe your dog gets ringworm or something and decides to vomit everywhere. Wouldn't you like a break somewhere?"

Mark looked up at the crimson red ceiling and took a long drink from his silver cup in front of him. He ticked his tongue a few times and continued to glare at the impatient woman before tersely responding in a monotone voice.

"Well, if it was only people like me in the world we would get along fine. Second, who gives a fuck about math anyway?"

"I'm a math maj-."

"Let me finish! Third, I would never ever get a dog. I can't believe you even suggested that. And finally, that first question is completely hypothetical, so it makes no sense. That's like asking me what I would do if the world was ending."

"And what would you do, Mark?"

"I would go to the top of the Willis Tower, and enjoy the Greatest Show On Earth."

Mark started to rise toward his feet and shifted into his peacock feather blue jacket and buttoned it up before throwing a few dollar bills into the food-crowded table.

"Look, I don't...I just don't feel it. With you. I'm not the best at these things, and I understand our friends have kinda pushed us here, so if we could just pay and leave, we could forget all about this. I think that's how it should be." Mark softly spoke.

The girl bit her lip and rolled her cerulean eyes before taking a long breath. Suddenly, she skidded her chair away from the table and sprung to her feet. She quickly snatched her ivory purse from the rickety dark wood chair and sauntered out of the ostentatious Thai restaurant. A waiter slowly walked towards the table and put on a fake smile, before having it wiped away like a dish rag on a dirty plate.

"She didn't tip you, by the way. Just so ya know. And the pasta was overcooked after all."

Mark's ink black loafers matched the opaque night sky as the light breeze pushed the dancing green leaves across the paper smooth Chicago street. With a quick jostling of his feet, he reached the edge of the street and vigorously waved his arm to stop the yellow taxi cab. Mark pushed himself onto the cool leather seats and barked out his destination.

"518 South Street." Mark clearly articulated to the dark skinned and short-bearded man.

The taxi lurched to a start and rolled its way, weaving trough the busy nighttime tragic like a carp flowing in a slow river. Mark stared out at the bright window displays of Downtown Chicago. Mark's grass green eyes suddenly shot as large as the obscured moon. His breath hitched and he looked back at the burly Indian male.

"I know where I'm going okay."

The driver looked at the rear view mirror with an inquisitive look on his face before questioning the suddenly perturbed man in his care.

"Excuse me where you saying something."

"Oh shit." Mark cursed from under his breath. He shifted his alert gaze toward the window and breathed a little heavier.

"No I'm not. I just forgot something. So just stop telling me what to do." Mark spoke the last sentence quickly as he tried to close his eyes while breathing louder.

"Sir, I don't know what your-"

"It's fine. There's no one beside me." Mark blurted out. "If you could drive faster, it's only seven blocks away."

"There's traffic. I'm sor-"

"Can you just not talk please and hurry. My back's getting tense." Mark shifted around on his seat and unbuckled himself as he stretched his somewhat athletic frame to rest his back on the far side of the cab.

"Sir, you need to buck-"

"Just get to the fucking place. And no talking." Mark ordered.

The driver mouthed an obscenity to himself and pulled to the lane closest to the sidewalk and accelerated down the crowded midtown street. Mark sliced through the silence as he continued to ramble.

"I'm glad you at least care about me. Just don't remind me about that." Mark said.

"Sir, I didn't say anythi-."

"Are you deaf. I told you to shut up"

"Sir, if you don't stop yelling, I'll kick you out." The driver said shaking his hands in front of him in frustration.

"Fine by me! Your the one not getting paid!"

The two plunged into a thick and bitter silence. Mark continued to rub his forehead and suck in air before satisfyingly pushing out a long column of air. Suddenly, Mark tensed up again and shot to an upright position and scanned the inside of the taxi.

"Nero! I said shut up!"

"You know what? Get out." The driver said in a high and strained voice.

"Hell no. It's only two blocks awa-."

"Exactly, you can walk."

"Just...You know what. I'm done."

Mark flung open the door as fast as flickering lightbulb, almost striking a fast walking female in a neon gray tank top. The lady shouted out at him, but Mark shot out of the taxi and pounded his feet onto the pavement the two remaining blocks to the looming light dotted structure that was the Skyfall Condos.

An agitating elevator ride later, Mark stumbled out onto the wide, green carpeted hallway and felt the cool, coffee scented air waft by him as he stunted to room 420.

Mark bolted into his modern, spacious condominium and raced to the stainless steel kitchen. He reached up for the top cabinet and opened the door before flicking his arm in and pulling out a small orange container. He nearly broke the top open and poured out a single red capsule and shoved it into his mouth. He took an empty glass on the counter and drew water from the sink faucet before draining the water into his throat.

"There. I fucking did it Nero. Shut up. And you two! Don't tell me what to do."

A hollow and terse knock ripped through the somewhat placid void of noise. Mark whipped his head straight for the source and pointed at it before continuing to yell.

"No. No ones there. Shut up. There's no one there."

"Excuse me. Mister Warner, I have a delivery for you."

"Fine. I'll open the door, but just to humor you. You'll be gone in a few seconds anyway!"

Mark out his hand on the cool silver metal and closed his eyes as he took another deep breath. His hand had a vice grip on the handle, making his knuckles a cue-ball white before turning it and opening the door.

A middle aged, somewhat portly and balding African-American male in a light blue jacket with matching pants was standing before him with a clipboard facing him. Mark sighed in relief, but he quickly shifted his eyes towards a tall brown box behind the assumed delivery man.

"Oh, I-I'm sorry. I've had a rough night. Uh, what's going on here." Mark said in low voice.

"I just need you to sign this sir," the man said in a placid and deep voice.

"But wait, what is this? Who sent me this? What's going on?"

"It's anonymous sir. The paper says its a gift ordered yesterday from the Flying Mint Bunny Corporation."

"What the hell? Did someone get me a mail order bride or a blow up doll or something"

"Sir, what you do in your spare time is none of my business. Please sign here."

"But this isn't mine. There's a mistake." Mark said while shaking his head and lifting his hands into the air.

"It says your address right. If there's a mistake, you can call the number on the instruction book."

"But I can't take thi-."

"Sir, it's getting late. If there's a mistake, just call the number. please sign here." The delivery man gently spoke.

Mark grimaced at the paper being held towards him and he grunted in frustration as he wrote his name on the paper, which had little on it except a light blue logo and a transaction log of other people.

"Do you need me to roll it in."

"Just to the middle right here."

The man rolled the package to the middle of the large room between a white couch and an empty minibar. He leaned onto the couch and caught his breath before rising back to his feet.

"Okay, call if there's any problems and I'll see you later." The delivery man said as he walked out of the spacious condominium.

"Yeah tha-. Wait. Whaddya mean by late-" Mark was cut off by the closing of the oak door.

Mark stared with his mouth agape at the tall package in front of him. It was a rectangular box roughly two inches taller than him. After a few more seconds, Mark reached for the booklet on top of the package and brought it down to his eyes. He whipped the booklet to the first page, and his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth incredulously opened again. After a second of quick reading, Mark looked at the box again.

"What the hell is an Arthur Kirkland?"

* * *

**Thank you everybody and welcome to my first foray into the mystical world that we are partaking in today. Being my first story, I would love a mountain of constructive criticism. Also, I want to ask what the first UNIT should be like. Being a Punk version of England, I could imagine he would be different from normal England. Don't worry about lack of characters either. The units will be rolling by the next chapter. A story is a story though, so it needs to be concise and have well thought out characters. Tell me what you think of the main OC so far, and please tell me what you think should happen next. I have a very good path planned out, but suggestions are opened and loved. Thank you.**


	2. On To The Next One

Mark skimmed his way through the mysterious booklet as random words swirled in his head like a tornado increase its rotation speed. When he reached the back, he saw the phone number the delivery man told him about. After seeing it was a twenty four hour hotline, Mark pulled out of his roughly stitched pockets on his black polyester dress pants a compact IPhone. He zoomed his thumbs across the sensitive touch screen before raising the phone towards his ear.

"Hello. Flying Mint Bunny Help Desk. I'm Darla. How may I help you?" A nasally and tired voice breathily spoke.

"Yes. My name is Mark Warner, and I think you sent me a package that isn't mine. I live on 518 South Street, Chicago, Illinois."

After a bombastic crackling if static that made Mark jump, a calming putter patter of keys being pushed on a keyboard made him breath slowly as he tried to visibly calm himself.

"Excuse me sir?" Darla's voice sliced through the silence like a hot knife in butter. "Yes, I believe we have the correct address for apartment 420."

"No, listen. I don't know anything about this. Who would send me a...I still don't know what it is. What is Arthur Kirkland? Or who?" Mark said quicker and quicker until he started to ramble.

"Sir, getting frustrated isn't going to help here." Darla's feeble attempt to calm down the agitated male fell on dead ears.

"What are units? Are they like games or maybe some sort of sex toy? What's Hetalia? It sounds like some sort of organization. I mean...I'm sorry! My head is still reeling from something earlier. I don't even know how real this is!"

"Sir, please. If you will slowly read through the manual then you will understand what you have received. I assume you still feel there is a mistake."

"Very much so. I can barely handle myself right now. I don't need whatever is in there to come out and kill me!"

"Sir, that rarely happens. Now I'm go-."

"Wait, wait, wait. Rarely?"

"All situations have different circumstances sir. Now in writing your name down and transferring it to our returns department. We have a strict no return policy except in special cases, and if we are wrong, then we will collect the UNIT later. In the meantime, it is advisable that you do not wake him up. This will ma-."

"How would he wake up. Is he asleep in there? Had a rough trip?" Mark's tone dropped with sarcasm like a bee hive of viscous honey.

"Believe it or not sir, this is the case more often than you think. You will receive a call at around four o'clock tomorrow, so-."

"No, I can't do four." Both sides of the line wallowed in an uncomfortable silence.

"Why not?" Darla asked.

"My flight class ends at five."

Darla sighed as she scribbled down more information on her notepad. "Okay, there will be a call at seven thirty that will tell you whether your return has been approved. Your chances are still slim, especially since you actually didn't buy the UNIT."

"Well then tell me. Who did?"

"The gifter has chosen to stay anonymous. We cannot disclose that information to you."

Mark incredulously stared at the phone before shaking his head and speaking.  
"Okay. That's fine. I expect it at seven thirty. Not seven twenty nine, or seven thirty one. Just seven thirty, okay."

Mark could almost picture the rolling eyes Darla just made as she lowered the phone to the receiver. "Yes. Thank you for calling, and we will get back to you when we can."

"Seven Thirty!" Mark shouted before being cut off by the dismally resounding tone floating through his ears.

Mark groaned as he slowly made his way towards the front of the brown monolith for what felt like the hundredth time that night. He glared with disdain mirrored by his eyes before surrendering to the kitchen to get a nice dose of uncontrolled chaos. Mark reached into the cool, frosty chamber for his liquid gateway towards temporary salvation.

"Well, nothing wrong with Mike's Hard Lemonade." Mark absentmindedly said to himself. He grabbed the moist needle nose bottle and walked to his plush white sofa while grabbing the previously abandoned baby blue booklet. He flung himself onto the couch and stretched his tan arms towards the remote control for the plasma flat screen television staring at him.

"Sox probably starting in Seattle," Mark muttered to himself. He squeezed down the power button and the television flashed a brilliant white before slowly fading towards a brightly lit baseball field. Mark raised the volume considerably higher, almost like he was trying to sink himself into the sound waves of the baseball diamond.

"Ladies and gentleman," a disembodied voice in the television said,"Please rise and remove your hats for our nations colors."

"Yes, there the same as yesterday. Lets move on." Mark whispered absentmindedly.

"Now, fans. Please welcome Country Recording artist Blake Shelton as he sings our national anthem!"

Mark giggled and took another quick gulp of his beverage before commenting.

"You couldn't afford a parrot to sing, could you, Mariners?"

The gruff and somewhat twangy country voice of Blake Shelton started to slowly roll of the words to the Star Spangled Banner. Soon, an instrumental started playing along on the PA system at the stadium, and the song went into full swing.

Mark could not quite hear the rumbling and shaking of the vertical box several feet away behind him. He continued to absentmindedly sip his beverage as the thumping of the box on the pristine hardwood floor crescendoed. The box went from a small rumble to a violent side-to-side motion, almost tipping over in an instance. Unfortunately, the box was still unheard by Mark, so one last attempt was made to rattle the box open without brute force.

"Turn that racket off, you stupid git!"

For a picosecond faster than a raging black hole, Mark seriously considered swallowing all of the pills in his condominium.

* * *

**Thank you once again for reading. Consider this chapter a bridge to the real story. The first two chapters were introduction. Now the real fun begins. Please review as well. It's quick, easy, and you could let out all of your frustration of the day out on an unsuspecting writer (as long as its constructive). Suggestions for the characters and story are always welcome as well. Thanks!**


	3. The (Story) Arc Sets Sail

The box cracked and finally gave way to the interior pressure as it exploded. The rough and jagged edges of the broken pieces scattered over the dimly, reflecting wooden floor. Mark flung himself to the floor and half-hid himself with the thin, black fabric underneath the couch. Burrowing between the couch and the soil-brown coffee table, he hitched his breath and attempted to be as still as possible.

"Come out, you idiotic, American git. Where are you?"

Mark raised his chest at the Liverpool-Infused accent the voice cried out with. After hearing the obviously human voice, Mark lifted himself to the top edge of the couch and gawked at the sight in front of him.

A young adult, roughly Mark's average height, was staring down at the baby blue instruction manual on the steel-blue marble counter, curiosity shrouding his face. Mark first noticed his eyes, since they were somewhat like his, albeit a much more vibrant and vivid grass-green; however, the similarities stopped there. The person had layered and slightly ruffled bleach-blonde hair to go along with his heart-shaped face. He was wearing a dark, burgundy- almost black- jacket with a white hoodie underneath that hugged his slender build, as well as skin-tight black jeans that barely wrinkled around the knee area. He also had a plain, bright red bandana tied at his neck with the two tails sticking out from behind, much like a scarf worn backwards.

Mark quickly scanned the debris on the floor and saw a red and blue electric guitar with an ivory stripe encompassing the entire frame on the edge. He spotted some other clothes strewn around, obscured by the box remnants and an amplifier that lay next to the guitar.

Slightly angered at the mess in his neat home, yet still shocked at the man's appearance, Mark planned ways to confront him. He remembered a small section in the manual he received about a reprogramming mechanism. Much like a cunning cheetah pouncing on a gazelle under the sun soaked stars of the African savannah, Mark would have to sneak behind the man and attempt to "reprogram" him. Unfortunately, Mark barely skimmed the section in his haste, so he decided that the best option was to render the person unconscious, then read for further instructions.

It didn't help matters when the manual was being read by the mystery person.

Mark slid on his back a few inches toward the coffee table and gingerly opened the lower left drawer. He pulled out a small .22 caliber pistol and swiftly rose to his feet. After the man called Arthur Kirkland shifted his posture to where his back faced him, Mark tip-toed over the debris on the floor.

"That's not like me at all! Those idiots." The sudden interruption of the silence almost caused Mark to spring into the air like a released coil. Mark attempted to stay calm and pressed onward. He inched closer with his pistol outstretched towards Arthur. His hand shook, straining to keep a tight grip on the firearm in case it was needed. He neared the stranger until he was a mere two feet away from him. He jerked his arm up and prepared himself to bring the fat end of the weapon towards the unknowing stranger's skull.

Mark had completely disregarded the empty, glass picture frame on the counter, and the air constricted around them. Two pairs of green eyes met with each other from within the glass frame, both of them widening in shock and awe at each other.

Arthur spun around just as Mark lunged towards him. He ran head-first into Arthur's chest like an elephant being chased by a tidal wave. They both grunted in pain on the gravity-assisted descent to the unforgiving floor. Both of them lay beside each other and writhed in pain, trying to lasso air back into their constricted lungs.

"You... You stupid cockeyed... wanker! What the hell are you doing?" the young British man forced out before rolling towards his side.

"No! Who... the hell... a-are you?" Mark shouted. He moaned and clutched his head before curling into a ball as he attempted to ride out the pain.

"Where'd that gun go? Oh God... You even elbowed me!"

"You fucking blew up a box in my house! I'm _so_ sorry for the cold welcome!" Mark shouted sarcastically.

Mark lurched to a sitting position and stared at his lap for a minute. Arthur stretched himself out on the floor and laid there. The two stayed in their positions until Arthur stabbed out the silence.

"Actually, I hate to admit it, but I _am_ sorry. I shouldn't have busted out like that. I had a feeling you were someone else," Arthur said in a lowered tone.

"Well, I know what that's like." Mark grunted in exertion before climbing to his feet. He turned around and shot his small, right hand towards Arthur.

Arthur stared at the hand with his mouth agape before hesitantly locking his hand into Mark's warm one. Mark heaved him to a standing position, and the two faced each other.

"I guess I shouldn't have pulled a gun out on you," Mark stated. "I've had a pretty stressful night, and my flight class is tomorrow afternoon. Now, can I know who you are? I wanna hear it from you."

"I'm England."

"Yeah, I figured you're from there. I mean your name, though," Mark said.

"No, my name is Arthur Kirkland, but I am Great Britain."

Mark paused and reflected on the answer. He tilted his head in confusion. "I-I don't understand. I heard that you're from there the first time. I just want-"

"No," Arthur interrupted in an impatient tone. "That's my name, but I am the country- Great Britain."

Mark glared at the self-proclaimed country with his mouth opened like he had seen a nine-headed dragon. He blinked and mouthed something to himself before wiping his mouth, then began to speak.

"Okay, well, if that's the case, I'm Mark Warner, and I have two brothers and a sister who live in a locked water tower."

"Whom, not who, thank you very much. And do they really?"

"Okay, you shouldn't be criticizing anything with what you're wearing."

"What is wrong with how I dress?" Arthur shot back.

"Nothing, if you wanna look like Sid and Nancy."

Arthur leaned back in surprise and waved his hands in frustration while speaking in a quick, flippant tone. "I won't tolerate being made fun of!"

"Don't finish your sentences in prepositions, honey. It's not good grammar," Mark mimicked.

"Look, i just- Blast it all! Where'd it go?" A look of pained realization and faint panic shadowed Arthur's face.

"Where'd what go?"

"London! Where is it?" Arthur wandered around the room with his head lowered, trying to find his missing object.

"I don't know! What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's my mo- Oh, wait a second! Here it is." Arthur wore a face of joyful relief and grinned as he briskly walked over the red and blue guitar with a stamped union jack. He picked it up from the ground and clutched it towards his chest.

"That would have killed me if it was hurt. I guess it's fine, then. I don't mean to be rude, but do you have something to eat or drink here? It was a long trip."

Mark resisted the temptation to start interrogating the youthful Brit and decided to do something more productive. "Oh, yeah. There's some drinks in the kitchen. I guess you can make something if you want. i just have to call someone that can help me out with this."

"Thank you." Arthur marched with his guitar into the kitchen, leaving Mark to observe the wreckage in front of him. He sighed and raked his hands through his dark brown hair.

"I know who to call," Mark whispered to himself. He yanked the unharmed phone from his pocket and dialed the number to the one person he knew that might understand the situation he was in.

He had to admit it. Against all odds, the old woman down the hall kept up with the times better than he did.

Just as he heard the ringing, he glanced over to the opened instruction manual Arthur had commented on. He looked down on the paper and raised his eyebrow at one of the paragraphs. Like a fine-tuned military marching corp, he started to smell a thin layer of smoke and burnt charcoal permeating from the kitchen. Mark's eyes shot open as he realized the problem.

"Wait, hold up! Don't touch anything! You'll ruin my kitchen," Mark yelled. He leapt towards the enclosed kitchen where he started to see the smoke gathering in a billowing tower.

* * *

**A/N:** You could consider this the true opening to the story. The first two were introductions, and now we can move forward to the actual interaction. Thanks to all the viewers so far, and please don't hesitate to review. Any constructive criticism or suggestions for the characters and/or story are loved. Thank you.


	4. Black Magic Woman

"Rule thirty-two! No cooking unless I'm there."

"It was the damn stove. I had nothing to do with it."

Mark and Arthur were surrounded by the mocha-brown walls of Mark's bedroom. The dim light from the built-in, white ceiling lights cast faint shadows on the floor and the dark green bedsheets. The balcony outside was visible from any point in the room. The peaks of the light-dotted buildings poked out from the horizon of the balcony edge to far above the condominium height. It almost mocked the building by obstructing the placid Lake Michigan as it mirrored the still moon.

The two men in the room refused to imitate the peaceful atmosphere on the wind-brushed northern night. Mark had his smooth arms crossed at his chest in indifference after changing into black sweatpants and a faded red T-shirt. After the near collapse of his building from the kitchen fire, Mark thought it was best to create some rules for Arthur's short stay at his home. Mark had called the old lady down the hall to ask her about this whole Hetalia unit business because he had overheard her and her granddaughter talking about it; however, the old lady was not home. Mark ended up encountering a robotic and uncaring machine voice; it was his best source of comfort in this stressful time. With the prospect of someone living in his home for an extended period of time looming like the ferocious heat of the rising sun on a summer morning, Mark decided to at least give Arthur some direction.

Unfortunately, this particular version of Arthur Kirkland was not very fond of rules or direction. It would only make sense that the younger and slightly edgier model of this person would be less easier to compromise with.

Arthur had immediately protested against these various ground rules with rejection ("I refuse to listen to any of your rambling!") and a little misplaced blame ("It's not my fault your anthem sounds horrible. Anyone would do what I did!"). It finally took Mark's persistent threats of running over his prized guitar and amp that caused the country personification to relent, and he glared daggers at Mark as he continued.

"Rule thirty-three: Do not go into the guestroom. Rule thirty-four. If-"

"Wait, why not?"

"There's stuff in there you shouldn't see. Rule thirty four, if-"

"No. I want a better reason."

"Just... You know what? It's time to sleep. It's two in the morning, and I have class tomorrow," Mark said as he turned his head to his inviting mattress.

"I thought you said it was in the afternoon."

"It is, but I still want to sleep. What's wrong with that?"

Mark yanked off his red shirt and dived onto his bed. He scrunched his legs towards his body, allowing him to slide into the warm cocoon. Mark felt his back loosen from contact with the fitted sheets, almost like he was floating on the crystal blue waves of a refreshing pool in the thick, tropical air of the Caribbean. He rested his head on the blue, striped pillow and stared up at the ceiling, taking in the orange-scented smoke from the lone candle positioned next to his bed.

His eyes shifted to Arthur. He was staring at him with slight impatience, as if he was asking a question he couldn't vocalize.

"What are you doing?" Mark asked.

"Any idea where I should sleep?" Arthur asked.

Mark motioned at the bed he was in. "Any other beds you see around here?"

"What? I'm not sleeping with you! I'm going to the couch!"

"There's no way you're going to leave a full-sized imprint on my new couch. It's either here or the floor."

Arthur considered the proposal as he looked down to the bright and freezing floor. He jolted his head up and stared at the open spot next to Mark. Seeing his insecurity, and having the heart to not see him on the floor by himself, Mark decided to assure him.

"Okay, how about I go on top and you can stay in the sheets? I'll even put a pillow between us."

Arthur relented and put his body on the bed like it was a burning hot tub and he was getting used to the water. He stretched his legs out and looked up at the ceiling.

"You're just gonna sleep in that?" Mark asked.

"I really don't think it matters right now."

Mark shrugged his shoulders and moved to the remote control beside him. He turned off the lights, leaving the faint glow of the buildings surrounding the condo to be the only source of illumination. Mark blew out the flickering candle and turned his head toward his new roommate.

"Are you really that self conscious? I mean, I'm not gay or anything, but I'm at least comfortable with my sexuality."

"Can we not talk about this right now?" Arthur half-demanded in an exasperated tone. "Be quiet so I can go to sleep, you stupid frog."

Arthur couldn't have slapped himself quicker for what he just called his bed-mate. He tensed up in realization and started to stammer.

"No, wait. I-I didn't mean that. Oh God, now I can't get that image out of my head," Arthur said as he covered his face with his hands in embarrassment. Mark just turned his head and furrowed his eyebrow in confusion.

"What? What're you saying?"

"Nothing! Good night!" Arthur slammed the jail cell on the conversation. He flipped over to where his back was facing the confused man next to him. Arthur's faced shifted colors to a faint ketchup-red, still reviewing his words. On the other side of the bed, Mark rolled his eyes and shifted to his side as well. Finally, sleep started to overtake him and he dived into a spiral of darkness, into a land of thoughtless dreaming.

* * *

The explosive guitar chord walloped Mark and forced him to roll of his bed in surprise. The metallic sound shot through the apartment walls like a rocket launching into space. With a reverberating thud bouncing in his skull, Mark jerked himself to his feet and ran over to the source. He stumbled his way, bouncing his hands off the pale, blue walls of the wide hallway before turning into the large expanse of the center room.

He saw Arthur wearing his white hoodie that had a sewn union jack patched over his heart, clutching his guitar in his hands. After a small pause, he scratched on the strings and a hurricane of noise rammed into the walls of the condominium. Mark started to yell, but Arthur had his back turned to look out onto the overcast Chicago skyline buzzing with newfound life and crawling with the small pedestrians stopping their mid-morning jogs to look up at the twentieth story condominium.

Mark did not even attempt to yell over the ravenous jarring that the electric instrument was making. He scurried towards the amplifier and yanked out the cord connecting it to the instrument, leaving an auditory dearth in place of the full-sounding guitar. Arthur strummed for a second longer before realizing that his sound had diminished to something akin to a mouse screeching at a trap.

"What are you doing?"

"What? I was just-"

"You probably gave all the old people in this building a fucking heart attack. You almost gave _me_ a fucking heart atta-"

"Calm down. It was only on six."

"Why couldn't you just shoot a gun in my face to wake me up instead. Jesus Christ!"

Arthur's retort was interrupted by a hollow knocking on the door. Mark could not whip his head towards the door any faster as his eyes grew to the size of a flying saucer.

"You better hope that's not the landlord to kick me out," Mark said.

He scrambled towards his room and pulled on the first shirt he could find; an old Green Bay Packers football T-shirt (which was a huge mistake in the anti-Green Bay environment of Chicago). He ran out of the room, grimacing from the cold floor as if he was walking on a cooling bed of coals. He approached the door and looked through the eye hole. Mark gasped and thrust down on the door handle before opening the door, letting in the rotating breeze and invasive light from the hallway.

A tan female teenager scampered into the room while gasping for air. Her chestnut-brown hair snaked to her shoulders and framed her face. Her honey eyes were surrounded by red bloodlines as she shrugged of her brown jacket and adjusted her yellow long sleeve shirt. She hunched over and nearly fell to the floor until Mark slammed the door and put his hand on her back. He put his arm around her rounded shoulders, and she leaned onto him as she tried to regain her composure and balance.

"Where! Where... is he?" she asked with a cracked and hoarse voice.

"Who? I don't understand. What's wrong? Who are you?"

"Ms. Valdez's granddaughter. I... heard there was... a-a new unit."

"You need to calm down. You sound like you just ran a marathon," Mark said.

"I ran two miles. I-I have to see this new- _Iggy!_"

The woman's face brightened like a fire fueled by gasoline, and with her fatigue forgotten, she charged towards the blond-haired male. He gasped in surprise and shielded his body by outstretching his arms to absorb only a small fraction of the impact. The woman bulldozed over Arthur and they both plummeted to the floor,the girl putting her head on his chest and screeching in delight.

"I knew it! I knew this was real!"

"Excuse me...? Could you please not choke me?" Arthur said while he struggled to vacuum air through his contracted esophagus.

The apparent fangirl squeaked an apology and hopped off of the recovering man. She looked over and saw Mark, who was staring at her like she had committed a horrific crime, and was ready to throw her into a mental facility. She giggled and sauntered over to the surprised homeowner.

"I'm sorry. I need to be calmer. I'm Silvia Valdez. My grandmother told me that there was a unit in this building she never saw before," she said in a flatter and slower tone. She outstretched her paper-smooth hands towards Mark, and he took it into his own.

"I'm Mark Warner. I assume your grandmother told you about my problem."

"Yes, and I'm so happy you came to us first. You probably heard our, uh, loud conversations in the lobby. So, I think it's great you knew about that."

"Oh, it's fine. But I really need to know about, like, what to do, and they said they call at seven, and th-"

"Oh yeah, I tried to return a France unit one one time, but they wouldn't let me, so I just have to deal with it." Silvia said in a casual rhythm.

"A who? And you have some of whatever these are, too?" Mark gestured towards Arthur who was staring at the two and pulling on his velvet red jacket.

"Oh yes, I'll explain all I know at lunch, if you don't mind. And," Silvia leaned towards Mark's ear and cupped her hand around her mouth before continuing in an airy tone. "I really want to spend time with Iggy, if you don't mind. I just love him so much, and now that this version is out, I could just _die._" Silvia withdrew from Mark's face with a devilish grin on her face.

"Just one question before we go."

"Sure!" Silvia responded in a high pitched voice.

"Who's Iggy?"

"Whaddya mean? That's him," she said, pointing towards the man wearing a frown on his face.

"His name is Arthur. How'd you get anything like Iggy?" Mark asked.

"This'll take some time to explain. Can we go right now? There's this great Thai place I've wanted to go to."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for showing up again. As always, comments, suggestions, and idea are much appreciated. Don't hesitate to review; its quick and easy and you can show your true emotions towards me. That's something you can't always do everyday. Take this opportunity for what it's worth! Thank you.**


	5. Welcome To Bedlam

Mark could have skydived off of a biplane sooner than he would go back to that Thai restaurant.

Not only did he dislike the soggy and overcooked cuisine that caused his stomach to shake in his body like a lustful Latin dance in Rio De Janiero, but Mark did not want to relieve his rough date a few nights ago. Even worse, he didn't want to remember what had happened afterwards. Here he was, though, sitting in the rigid, wooden chairs with the mold-colored tablecloth. The nauseating smell of onions crawled through his nasal passages and swirled in his brain like a dense soup being stirred. The other two people seated in front of him were trying to make small talk, with Arthur on the right side and Silvia next to him. Silvia, in her ecstasy of finding this "new" unit, decided to engage in further conversation.

"So, Iggy. How's your roommate?" Silvia asked as she raised her eyebrow and gave a sideways smirk towards the seated punk rocker. Mark jerked his head up and became annoyed by the fangirl's overuse of the nonsensical nickname.

"Before you answer, can you tell me who the hell Iggy is? Is that a music reference or something?" Mark asked.

Silvia rolled her eyes and rested her head on her right hand. "No, it's just a nickname. England's name is _Igirisu_ in Japanese."

"Yes. It's just a little nickname. You don't have to be so uptight over it. Continue, miss," Arthur said as he took a sip of his water.

"Oh, wait. That reminds me." Mark took out an ornate, translucent bottle with orange capsules inside. He kept the bottle under the table and shaked out a single pill. He deposited the bottle back into his pocket and popped the pill into his mouth before craning his head back and taking the cup of water in front of him. Mark let the thin fluid drip through his mouth and into his throat, carrying the pill with it.

"What's that?" Silvia asked.

"Oh, just an aspirin. So, what can you tell me about all of this? I didn't really have time to read the manual between the assaulting and burning down the building."

"Hold on. We should order first," Silvia said.

Mark sighed and rubbed his forehead, his elbow placed on the cushioned tablecloth. His eyes flickered towards Silvia, then shifted towards Arthur. He reached next to him and unraveled the napkin set. He saw the jagged teeth of the steak knife and pulled it towards his hands. While holding the knife, he pointed to the rolled up napkin in front of Silvia.

"Your knife. I need it."

Silvia squinted her brown eyes, and she tilted her head in curiosity. "For what?" she asked.

"For the waiter."

"Are you planning on stabbing him, or tackling him?" Arthur asked, sarcasm lacing his words.

"Neither. Yet. Just give me your knives," Mark commanded.

Arthur and Silvia sneaked their straight-cutting instruments from their napkins to the open palm of Mark's hand. He shifted the polished knives into one hand and held it up at his shoulder height as the tall, black-haired waiter with thin-rimmed glasses walked up to the table.

"Hello, and welcome to... Uh..." The waiter forgot his words as he looked at the smirking young man with green eyes holding a large group of knives in his hand. The waiter pulled out of the quick trance and proceeded with the introduction. "Welcome. I'll be your server today. We will start out with... Some drinks. So what would you like, si-"

"I'll go last," Mark said, leaning forward and staring at the waiter's soap bar blue eyes as they shifted immediately towards the hispanic and arguably saner young lady.

"Oh! I'll just have an Arnold Palmer." The waiter jostled down the words on the compact notebook and looked up at Arthur.

"I'll have some simple black tea. And I apologize in advanced for _him_." Arthur nodded his head towards Mark, who was still glaring at the nervous waiter.

"What do you want, sir?" the waiter asked in a forced and straight tone.

"You mean what would I like to _drink?_ I want a lot of things right now, but I guess I'll stick with a Virgin Strawberry Daiquiri. I'd go all the way with it, but it's kinda early."

"I-I understand, sir." The waiter nodded and stamped a nervous smile. "I will be right back, and if you need me, my name's Bill." The waiter attempted to scurry away as if he had discovered a beehive under the shrouded table.

"So what if I _don't_ need you? Then what's your name?" Mark's cool words froze the waiter, and he turned around with a compliant smile still being worn.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"When I don't need you, like when you're coming to give me a check, what should i call you then?"

"Uh, it's still Bill, sir."

"I expected that," Mark said, nodding at the waiter. The waiter used this as his opportunity to escape to the kitchen while Mark set down the knives on the table.

"What was _that?_ You rude American idiot."

"Shut the hell up, Sick Boy. You're the one coming into this restaurant looking like a you got shredded at a fucking mosh pit."

"I look perfectly fine. Silvia, you're much more respectable and polite than this basketcase. Tell him i look fine."

Silvia blushed at Arthur's kind, yet oblivious words and stroked her hair.

"Oh, you look fine all right. You look just fine, Iggy," Silvia said in a low and calm tone.

"Uh, why is that my nickname again?" Arthur asked.

Suddenly, Mark slammed his hands onto the table, causing the cups and silverware on the table to bounce and vibrate with a high-pitched clatter. "Shut up! Both of you," Mark said in a hushed tone, leaning towards the two sitting in front of him. "Listen. Call me paranoid, I don't care, but that waiter is not right."

"Why? What's wrong with him? He's acting like a decent human being, unlike someone else here," Arthur said.

"No, listen. Tell me, who has more control of the food you eat at a restaurant than anyone else?"

"The chef?" Silvia said in a deadpan tone.

"No!" Mark looked past the sloped shoulders of Silvia and Arthur before continuing. "It's those fucking waiters," Mark whispered with disdain spiking through his words.

"You see them?" Mark's eyes glared at the corner of the hallway that led to the kitchen. "They just sit there in the kitchen and watch all those chefs cook that food, and when the chef turns around, he goes up to the food and decides to have some fun. He'll still get a great tip; no one is gonna blame him for any problems, right? So, before you know it, you get some barely thawed out fish and throw him a ten dollar tip for a fifty dollar meal." Mark's voiced rose a small fraction and cracked as he sucked in more air to continue his rant.

"Then, you walk home and start feeling a little queasy. So you walk over to your cabinet and get a some Pepto-Bismal or whatever. But, by the time you fall asleep that night, all you want is to get your stomach pumped at some emergency room that won't be able to see you for a month anyway. So, yeah, they can do all they want, when they want, and how they want it. And do they get fired or punished? No, they just get twenty percent." Mark drew away from his listeners with a red-faced frown.

Arthur and Silvia's faces morphed into fear. They had the kind of fear one gets when he or she stops to give a man on a street corner a couple of quarters, and the main starts to complain about the government and people around him. He starts to grow louder and attract more attention with his jerky, sometimes violent movements until a police officer comes and forces him into the back of an ink-black police car. The two turned towards each other, mirroring their expressions of confusion and worry before turning back towards Mark and attempting to locate the correct words to say to the tense man in front of them.

"Look," Sylvia said with a cautious tone, "I think maybe we should just let go of the waiter problems and explain some stuff to you first. At least before he gets back."

"Good. But hurry up. I'm planning my next move."

"So you've already learned about Hetalia, right?" Silvia asked.

"It's some sort of cartoon in Japan. I haven't watched any yet, but I guess it has to be good if they make life-sized models of the characters." Mark opened his palms and gestured towards the suddenly quiet country personification.

"That's the thing. This isn't strictly a character of the series; this is England, but another version."

Mark's eyes widened in confusion. "So, there's more than one type of the same character?" Mark asked as he lowered his head and ran his hands through his hair.

"Usually. But you're lucky. This is the first time I've heard of this kind of unit. Trust me, I would've climbed Mount Everest if i knew there was one up there."

"Then he's yours. Take him! You're welcome," Mark said quicker than a speeding subway train during rush hour.

"Excuse me, but I have an opinion on this as well. It _is_ about me, after all," Arthur said as he tried to net the free-floating attention of the two debating people.

"Sorry, Iggy. You really don't have that much say in it. It's up to the company-"

"Who I've never heard of, by the way!"

"-to decide the placement and exchanges of units," Silvia said, drowning out the anxious owner across the table from her. "They run a tight ship over there. And they don't want any legal problems between owners or units."

"Does murder count as a legal problem? Because I'm getting there. Did you hear how he woke me up today?"

"My guitar playing is wonderful, thank you!" Arthur said in a loud, annoyed tone.

"The point is that, first of all, you need permission to exchange or return units, and they rarely do that. Second. I think he would be good for you. I-I'm not judging, but I think Iggy could really help you and whatever problems you have."

"I'm fine. There's nothing wrong right now." Mark picked up his water and let the rest of the icy fluid cascade into his mouth.

"Haven't you ever wanted like a cat or something like that?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to be compared to an ani-"

"I like dogs! Why can't people understand why cats are so bad?" Mark firmly set down the empty glass and shook his hands in frustration.

"Okay! Okay! Forget I said that. But... Why can't you just try to get along? If that call later today says it's okay, turn him in. Or better yet, give him to me. Otherwise, I couldn't take away someone's chance at a friendship away."

Mark covered his mouth with his hand and reflected on his situation. He looked down at his lap with an inquisitive frown formed on his face. After a few stiff seconds of silence, Mark looked up at Silvia and spoke softly.

"Well, you seem pretty confident we'll like each other." Mark sighed. "So, I guess if that call comes back with a rejection, I could bare to have a second person in the condo for a little bit."

Silvia smiled and patted the ignored Arthur next to her before her eyes wandered back to Mark, who's face showed a small hint of anxiety. She leaned over and pressed her soft hand onto Mark's flat, resting ones.

"Don't forget that I'll need to drop by a lot, too. Uh... You know, to learn more about this Iggy." Silvia giggled surreptitiously.

"I'm not new. I'm perfectly normal!" Arthur said in exasperation.

Mark sighed and caught the returning flash of the waiter's white apron. "I guess that's just more marshmallows on my sundae, isn't it?"

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for reading this far. Please review, comment, leave suggestions or ideas of any kind. It's easy and it only takes two seconds! Also, if anyone can tell me the movie reference Mark makes, you get a free Character! that's right. Pm or review with the answer! Limited time only! Review now! Now! Now! Also, thanks for 100+ views, and thanks to the first reviewer I've ever had! Thank you.**


	6. Wheels Keep Spining Round

Mark tried his best to never get show over excitement for anything. However, if there was one thing he could show weakness for, it was his frequent trips to Chicago O'Hare International Airport. While many travelers rued the day they stepped into the flat aerial wormhole, Mark would have partaken in Homer's Odyssey and Iliad if he was promised an opportunity to fly in the far-stretching blue atmosphere, tracing a white marker across the infinite sky. He stood at the edge of the train platform, and he turned around when he heard a Hispanic-laced accent roll into his ears.

"So you'll be back by six. right?" Silvia asked.

"Yeah. I guess everything will be fine, then?"

"Oh, definitely. Me and Iggy will be perfectly safe with each other." Silvia placed her hand on Arthur's back, causing him to jolt up like a small rabbit hopping over a tiny brook.

"Alright. Well, you know my address, so you can just drop him off at six." The steel-gray train jostled forward and extended past Mark for several cars before resting on the elevated white tiled platform. The scent of burning oil wafted over the people on the platform while they waited for the lethargic passengers to squeeze out of the narrow, thin doors like ants that have had their home stepped on by an unwelcome steel-toed boot.

"Alright, I'll see you then." Mark said with his back turned. Silvia shouted her goodbye and waved her hands vigorously. Her and Arthur stared at the lurching train accelerating in speed like a horse flung out of a racetrack starting gates. Silvia smiled to herself and turned around, prompting Arthur to walk next to her. They walked past the graffiti-laden white walls and up the stairs, causing a resounding clank to echo through the buzzing station. Silvia began to jog up the steps when she saw the faded sunlight reflecting off of the walls. She reached the top and took in the rumbling of the car tires softly caressing the pavement underneath, and she turned to see Arthur finally reaching the surface. She waited until he was beside her, and they began to walk down the wide, cracked sidewalks of the city street.

"So, looks like I get a few hours with you for myself." Silvia said as she looked up at Arthur, who wore a hint of red on his cheeks.

"Oh, yes. I know. So, uh, what do you want to do then."

"Well, i would take you to my place, but you probably won't get along with Francis." Arthur rolled his eyes at the mention of the other nation.

"Please! That old frog is embarrassing enough as is. I don't need people to see me around him.

"Since when have you cared about what people think?" Silvia leaned closer to Arthur and brushed her arm on his shoulder.

"I-I don't! I just care what people think about me and him. That stupid fail country would probably accost me nonstop. I feel a little bad for you, to be honest."

"Oh, no. It's not that bad. He's just misunderstood. Can we sit for a sec?"

Arthur agreed and the two found a long, green plastic bench in front of a flashing store display. It had headless mannequins with all of them showing pale blue suit with a purple striped tie. A logo with a curved "OR" was emblazoned on the chest area, and a sign proclaimed a clearance sale of fifty percent off on the price. Silvia stared at the suits and bit her index finger in contemplation before slowly lowering herself on the bench. Arthur payed the display no attention, and he planted himself next to her.

Silvia reached into her pocket and pulled out a school bus yellow lighter. She pulled out from her chocolate bar colored purse a small, white box with a red triangle splitting the top and bottom of the box in half. She flipped open the top and pulled out a nicotine-laden cigarette. She rubbed her thumb on the lighter switch, making it bloom into life. The cigarette tip reached the flame, and Silvia popped the cigarette into her mouth. Then, she closed her eyes and drew for almost five second before releasing. Her shoulders lowered in relaxation, and she held the lit cigarette in her right hand.

"So Iggy, tell me about Mark. What's he like?"

Arthur stared at the calm young adult and looked down at the burning cigarette in her hand. "Well, he..uh...he's quite uptight. I'm trying to find the right words, but he can be quite weird. Like, i was practicing today and he just yanked out the chord. It wasn't like I was playing anything terrible like what you hear a lot. Especially in Britain, sad to say. But he did it anyway. And I couldn't believe that he forced me to sleep with him, either."

"W-what?" Silvia's mouth flung open and her tan face blushed to a barely noticeable metallic red.

"I thought he turned into France for a few seconds. And you know why i had to do it? He didn't want me to go to the other room because there was stuff 'no one should see'." Arthur used his hands to signal quotation marks around his description of the mysterious guest room. "Not to mention those pills he keeps taking. He keeps saying there aspirins, but they don't look like that, do they?" Arthur grasped his breath and slouched onto the windowsill behind him.

"I'm sorry, love. I guess I'm still adjusting to this new environment."

Silvia almost collapsed on Arthur's side from his words. She turned her head and propelled her cigarette towards her mouth and took another deep drag, before exhaling and loosening her muscles. She grinned at the flustered country and put her hand on his hard shoulder.

"It'll be fine. I think this guy just hasn't really done much, lately. He seems really focused getting his license. Did you see that smile he had when he got on the train?"

Silvia jumped to her feet and pushed her palms into the air, stretching her slim fitting jacket and undershirt up as she threw the cigarette onto the street curb. Arthur got up and looked at her before Silvia turned around and faced him.

"How about the three of us go to this club I know tonight. It's not the calmest place, i know. But we need to calm Mark down. Plus, I wouldn't mind seeing some of those moves you have."

Arthur seemed to have not heard the last part when lifted himself off of the lime bench. "Are you sure? We don't want to get in trouble, and he seems like someone that would cause it."

"It'll be fine. This place is pretty upscale. Which is why we need to get you into something a little classier."

"Again! Why is everybody criticizing how I look. This is normal attire in Great Britain." Arthur said while he vented out his annoyance.

"I'm sure it is, but I think a little cosplay would look great on you." Silvia tilted her head to look at the suit in the display.

"Cosplay? Isn't that like for Halloween?"

Silvia grinned like a leprechaun finding gold at the end of a rainbow. "Oh, it's nothing too out of the ordinary. Plus, you would look great in it." She said in a low voice.

Silvia took Arthur's hand and pulled him into the store. They both had to briefly shield their eyes from the reflecting light in the uniformly white interior of the store. After recovering, she pulled Arthur towards a rack of pale blue suits and took one off of the shelves while making a squeaking noise that made Arthur tense. She pulled out the suit and pushed the hesitant Arthur towards the quiet dressing rooms. She yanked open the finished mahogany door and powered Arthur into the dressing room with her.

"Okay, so just put this on and I'll see how it looks."

"I'm sorry, miss. But you need to leave."

"Oh no. It's fine. I'm just...uh, making sure you'll be okay in here. But, I really need to see how it looks."

"I'll show you when I'm done, love. But it takes an expert to look good. So, I'll be out in a minute." Arthur flicked off his black shoes onto the hardwood floor.

"Alright, just let me know when you're ready." Silvia said in a dejected manner.

Arthur had his back turned towards the tall wall next to him, so he wasn't able to see Silvia bury her cell phone into Arthur's vacant shoes. She walked out of the stall and went out into the main display area. She saw a wandering middle-aged African-American wearing a dark blue polo shirt and a name tag. She waved her hands and the man stopped as she approached her.

"Yes ma'am. Anything?"

"I need you to call a number for me." Silvia said as the man adjusted his earpiece.

"Well, ma'am. There's a payphone ou-."

"I'm so sorry. My battery's dead and I don't have any change. I need to hurry to see if my grandfather's okay at the hospital." Silvia raised her eyebrows in worry and fidgeted in front of the portly bald man. Her eyes grew wider and she clasped her hands behind her back as she waited for a response.

"Okay ma'am. Here you go. Make sure you don't leave the store," the employee said.

Silvia squeaked her gratitude and scurried towards the dressing room. She pressed the numbers on the illuminating touch screen faster than a cat leaps after a frightening scare. She lowered the phone's volume, and then she heard the triumphant sound of her phone's generic ringtone erupt from inside the dressing room.

"Arthur," she said in mock concern. "I need my phone. i think it's my grandma."

"Hold on. I'll slide it under."

"There is no under. It goes down to the bottom. Just let me in."

"I-I'll just be a second, Silvia."

"No, i need it now!" Silvia leaned her shoulder on the door and turned the chrome handle. To her surprise, the door opened and she stumbled into the room. She bumped into Arthur and he wrapped his arms around her to absorb the impact of them colliding into the mirrored wall behind Arthur. Silvia bounced off of him and they both rebounded from the impact and stood straight, facing each other.

Silvia's eyes wandered towards the shirtless man in front of her. Her pupils traced the well defined muscles on Arthur's physique. She stared at his firm chest and lowered her gaze towards his lower abdominal muscles. Silvia was frozen as she lusted over Arthur's toned body. While she kept examining his firm build, Arthur's face showed a tinge of read and he cleared his throat. Silvia peered up at Arthur's face and stammered as she slowly walked backwards to the door.

"Oh, I-I'm sorry! I-I didn't know it was unlocked. Uh, Yeah. Just keep getting dressed and I'll...be right here!" Silvia said erratically as she slammed the tall door shut and leaned on it.

Silvia stared at the dark grey wall in front of her with her mouth slightly agape. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She grinned like a madman and sighed in content. She heard a rapt knock on the door, and she jumped away from the door.

"Silvia, you didn't get your phone!"

* * *

The streaming wind made a small whistle through the miniscule air openings on the ivory Gulf Stream G-450 jet airplane. The skyscrapers of downtown Chicago were small bumps on the horizon line as the rolling waves crashed on top of another in the watery expanse of Lake Michigan. The yellow marble that is the sun was lowering in fatigue from a long balmy day. The plane cut through the small remnants of a low-floating cloud and flew on the navy blue sky that was turning into the faint purple of twilight.

"We got clearance back," Mark said.

"I'm not deaf. I know what the guy said. Shift it to cruise."

Sitting next to Mark was his instructor, Charlie Burke. He was a modest looking man, with messy, short black hair and a thick, handlebar mustache. His country accent sliced through the sun filled cockpit.

"So, you hungry Mark? There's a couple of crackers here."

"Not really, sir. Just got back from something." Mark unconsciously patted his stomach from the heavy and spicy Thai food almost forced down his throat.

"Oh. I just wanted to know if you wanted anything. Renee's making some fine turkey dinner. Extra gravy, too. Whoo! Smoother than a harmonica around a bonfire on a cold mountain night." Mister Burke cracked a sharp laugh.

"That's great, sir." Mark said.

"How's things in the real world, Mark?" The older man asked in genuine concern.

"Oh, it's fine."

"Still single?"

"Why? Is someone gonna ask me out?"

"Oh, not that I know of, but I just wanted to know something."

Mark looked down at the display in front of him and yawned before flicking a light switch on the control panel. Mark tried to relax his cramped body in the instrument-filled cockpit of the small passenger jet, but his instructor would not allow a moment of peace.

"Whats been going on in your life?" Mister Burke asked.

"Sir, isn't there a law against this? Asking all of this personal stuff on the flight?"

"I'm just caring about one of my student's well being, Mr. Warner. Nothing wrong with that."

Mark waited a few seconds as he took in a long, deep breath and released it like a locomotive slowly pushing out steam "Well, I got a roommate."

"Really? Male?"

"Of course. he's from-wait. what do you mean by that?" Mark contracted his eyebrows and glared at the man sitting next to him.

"How does he look?" Mister Burke asked in rapid succession to his last question.

"Sir, I'm sure your wife is much more attractive than this guy. I can assure you that much." Mark said, attempting to cast aside the conversation like he was swatting away a fly. Mark leaned back in the leather black chair and turned his head towards his flight instructor. Mister Burke looked towards his lap, attempting to organize the right words to say to the young pilot.

"Mark, I'm not gonna sugarcoat this. A lot of people talk about you."

"What do you mean? What's wrong?"

"Well, you know there's a lot of talk about you . You're not exactly the most social person, or friendly. And some people have been whispering about your, uh, mentality."

"People are saying I'm insane," Mark said in a flat voice.

"Well, this happens to everyone. I just want you to know that. When i first went through flight school in Boston, there was a lot of shady stuff going on. It wasn't until I met Renee down at that grimy bar in Washington that I was a hundred percent sure what I was."

"Wait, are saying I'm gay, too?" Mark's voice rose in annoyance.

"No! No, absolutely not," Mister Burke attempted to calm down the high-strung pilot. "It's just, since I first met you a couple years back you've been one of my best pilots. And I just wanna make sure everything is alright with you and this doesn't distract you.

"Trust me. If it was that easy to distract me, I would've been six feet under a long time ago."

"I'm just saying if I were you, I'd just be open-minded and just try new things. Like this roommate guy. It might work out."

"You'd make a terrible me then, sir."

"Not to mention, your test is coming up in a month or so. You have over sixty hours of airtime, and i taught you. So, I won't be too surprised when i see you showing off your license at him. Plus,I wouldn't mind meeting this guy too. Or at least seeing what he looks like." Mister Burke added the last part meekly.

Sir, let's not talk about him or the test, okay. I need to focus so I can land."

The two wallowed in the pool of incessant silence. Mark lowered the throttle and breathed slowly through his mouth. Mister Burke smirked and wiped his handlebar mustache.

"So, where's this guy from?"

Mark hesitated before answering. "He's British."

Mister Burke exploded into a massive coughing attack and guffawed as loud as he could. He covered his mouth as if he was trying to stamp out a burning need to laugh. Mark rolled his eyes and stared at the growing city skyline.


	7. Another Night At Grandma's House

The Argo Club was the crassest place for any well-to-do person to party at. The club was located at the top of the _ building. The crystal cylinder had three setback features that indented the floors closer towards the center of the frame as it reached the summit of the building, with a tall spire poking at the black blanket that was the night sky. The reflective glass reflected the dark blue and purple light of the Chicago Loop during the night, while shining it's own flickering rainbow of lights inside the club at the top of the building. The light breeze chilled the pedestrian coated streets as it wafted in from Lake Michigan.

Three people walked into the building and walked past the brown marbled. After briskly pacing past the yellow-stoned waterfall, the trio reached the elevator and quietly walked inside. One of them wearing a light blue dress with straight brown hair and stiletto heel shoes pushed the button closest to their shoulder level, and the traveling jail cell zoomed up the narrow shaft, like a shark ready to prey on an unsuspecting fish.

"Okay, so how long are here for?" Mark said as he adjusted the sleeve of his black suit with a black tie.

"Just loosen up. Have fun. Isn't that right, Tamaki?" Silvia said to the man in the light blue school uniform costume.

"Wh-what. Is that my name now?" Arthur raised his hands in frustration and looked at Mark for help.

"I don't know. She's probably gonna call you Harry Stiles in a second." Mark said.

"You know One direction?" Silvia asked hopefully.

"I know of One direction, sadly."

"Point is, just have fun, y'know. Get drinks. Make a few friends for once." Silvia said as combed her hair behind her ear with her hands.

"I have plenty of friends. Thank you," Mark said pointedly.

"Like who?"

The elevator door opened, interrupting the conversation. The white lobby transitioned at an open slide door into the dark blue illuminated night club. The dark outlines of people on the dance floor obscured the windows that showed the tall, well-lit buildings of Downtown Chicago, pasted on a pitch black screen. The nightclub floor circulated around the entire building on that floor and had a main stage in front of the entrance with a live band playing. The smell of alcohol and spirits reeked off of the people shuffling to the beat of the alternative rock music.

"So, whaddya think?"

"Great," Mark said unenthusiastically. "And the only club in the world with a live band, too. Where's the bar?" Mark asked, longing for the small bliss of alcohol.

'Oh yeah. Over there. I know the bartender. His name name is Ben. I'll be there in a minute. I see someone I know."

Mark and Arthur started toward the bar. However, Silvia quickly grabbed Mark's arm and pulled him back. She leaned up an inch towards Mark's ear so he could hear over the rising volume of the base-heavy music.

"Don't let Iggy drink a lot. He's very...sensitive to this stuff."

"I was too when I started out. He'll be fine."

"No, it's not that. He can;t hold anything."

"He'll acclimate. Calm down."

"Don't say words like that to Ben, okay? We'll only get kicked out faster."

Mark wrenched himself from Silvia's grip and caught up to Arthur who was speed walking around the edge of the dance floor towards the bar in front of the encompassing window. Mark caught up to him and they both sat on the red plastic stools that swung around in a complete circle. A man with short, black hair and a scruffy chin and mustache noticed them and walked towards them. On closer inspection, Mark noticed his strongly framed jaw and his eyes looked almost black in the dark environment of the club.

"So, what can I get you all?" The bartender asked.

Arthur opened his mouth, but Mark beat him to the answer. "Two strawberry daiquiris, make them easy."

"Whatever that means."

The glasses-wearing African-American sitting next to Mark stared at him with an incredulous expression on his face. He froze with his martini glass raised halfway towards his mouth. Mark turned to look at him and raised one eyebrow.

"You want a sip or something?"

The man crackled a laugh. "Do I look like a pussy?" He kept laughing as he hopped off the stool and swam into the sea of dancing people. Mark glared at the man and clenched his fists by his side before whipping around to the bartender. He shouted at the bartender and he turned his back in surprise.

"Never mind. Give me ten shots of vodka." Mark said tersely.

"Whoa! Haven't had a man chug down that many since my friend Damon."

"I think a little fire gets everybody going once in a while."

"Yeah, well, He was running from the law, and then he pulled up in here and he asked for that much. Right where you're sittin'. Then he pulls out this giant shining mountain of-."

"Yes, wonderful. Can i have the shots, please."

The man smirked in annoyance and turned to prepare the shots. Mark turned to face Arthur, who stared at Mark with his mouth agape in shock.

"Wanna play a game?" Mark asked the surprised man.

"In here? Drinking game?" Arthur's awestruck face turned into a mischievous grin. "Please! I could out drink this whole place dry. What is it?"

Mark smirked and looked back at the bartender who set the shots in front of them. Mark picked one up and held it towards his mouth. "Whoever drinks the most out of these ten win."

"Win what?"

"I dunno yet. We'll figure that out later." Mark nearly shouted over the hard-hitting music.

Arthur raised his glass up and took it towards his mouth. His smile reached it's limit and his pearly white teeth shone in anticipation of the liquor. Mark raised three fingers and lowered one of them in succession before his fingers were all clenched around the small glass while it tilted its contents into his mouth. In a cerulean tinged blur, he stamped the shot glass onto the counter before flinging the full one next to it towards his face and pouring the liquid in his throat. Drop by drop went down and brewed in his burning stomach as he chugged the next shot glass and the next one.

Finally, he reached his seventh glass and drained it. He reached for the next one, but found all of them to be empty. Claiming victory, Mark lifted his arms into the air and almost rocked off of his chair before balancing himself. He then looked at Arthur, who was slumped over the counter and grasped an empty shot glass with his other hand rested on his messy blond hair.

"Oh, get that bloody frog away from me." Arthur groaned and pointed towards the bartender. He looked back in confusion and Mark leaned over and tried to help the intoxicated man stand.

"He probably thinks I'm someone else. Happens all the time." The bartender said in a gruff voice.

"Me too. Do the voices follow you around, too?" Mark said in mock concern.

The bartender did not know how to respond to that sentence, so he looked at the pair as Mark supported the stumbling man off the stool and into the crowd of people. Arthur continued to babble as they crossed the multicolored desert that was the dance floor. Mark turned his head to all corners of the club and pushed Arthur through the crowd in an attempt to find Silvia.

"That git. He put something in there didn't he? And he made you win! I thought we were friends." Arthur said before moaning in despair. "I thought we were best friends with him. And the bunny said so as well."

"Stop acting like me and calm down. We just had too much, too quickly. If you see Silvia anywhere, call her."

"Mark, you wanker. This music is awful. I'd rather have that stupid fail pirate play whatever than these bloody rednecks." Arthur's words connected into one single jumble of English linguistics.

"It's not even country. It's alternative." Mark retorted.

"But I'm a country, you imbecile. Hey! On the inside, I'm actually black, y'know."

"Yeah, because England is known for it's Ebonics." Mark rolled his eyes as he almost lost his footing from the inebriated man's wild feet.

"Y'know, people say if they couldn't see my skin, they would think I was black."

Mark saw Silvia walking towards them. She waved her hands and hopped up and down in a desperate attempt to get the duo's attention. Mark almost dragged Arthur towards the swaying Latina and they almost crashed into each other from the people on both sides of them shuffling together in a sweeping rhythmic motion. Silvia grabbed Mark's hands, and his eyes widened in mild surprise.

"Mark, your here! And Iggy. Jesus, you look hot right now! And i just saw my girl, Trina. She was looking great. She had all of this stuff with here, and i just wanna dance now." Silvia said faster than a charging rhino on a helpless zookeeper.

"Silvia, slow down. Just breathe for a second. What the hell did you just take?"

"That's for me to know, and you to maybe find out, pretty boy." Silvia winked and grinned at the man massaging his pained forehead.

Arthur decided this was the best time for him to take charge of the situation and put an end to this music he hated so much. He rushed towards the stage and climbed with his hands and knees towards the stage. He climbed up the steps and ran towards the amp before promptly yanking out the cord of the lead guitarists amplifier. He saw a vacant black electric guitar and shoved the amplifier cord into it. He yanked down on the strings, forcing the amp to blare out a wave of razor sharp vibrations, causing most of the people to jump in surprise. The other two members of the band stopped and stared at the invasive Brit, before the straight-haired lead singer ran up and threw his hands in the air out of anger.

"Look, sorry. But this all sucks!" Arthur yelled in his microphone.

"Excuse me. We're playing and everyone seems fine, thank you."

"Well, if we played real music, then maybe I would be fine, too."

"Get of the stage, man. What's wrong with you."

"what's wrong with you. Throwing out me: the attractive artist slash nation that has ten times more talent than anyone out here.

"Yeah, Arthur. Wine and dine those assholes." Silvia shouted, thrusting a fist in the air while Mark tried to hold her still. Mark lightly prodded Silvia towards the stage so he could reach Arthur who was struggling to keep the guitar in his control.

"I think he wants to play some, Nate. He certainly looks the part." The guitarist with thick-rimmed glasses commented.

"Jack, he's a drunk bum. Where's security?" The lead singer shouted while pointing at the drunk rocker.

However, Arthur started to play the guitar. To the surprise of everyone in the club, the sound was a mellow, rounded lightning bolt of flames toward the crowd. The Latin-infused chords started to sway the crowd and they started to move to the building rhythm of the guitar solo. The lead singer looked back at his band mates and shrugged, before returning to the microphone and spoke to the crowd.

"I guess we'll let this one guy crash in. At least he picked a good song. My favorite from Carlos Santana folks."

"Where's that pirate, now? Where's Spain, now." Arthur barked into the microphone before the singer eased him away to begin singing.

The meaning of Arthur's words were lost on the crowd. Whether it was from the fact that the song was from a Hispanic artist, the sound itself was quite Latin, or they were drunker than a college graduate in communications was undetermined. However, the singer started to roll off the lyrics in his high-pitched, mellow singing voice.

While watching, Mark felt himself being grabbed around his hips and was turned to face Silvia who was grinning like she won a prize at a carnival.

"I wanna dance, Mark." She said unevenly.

"I don't dance, Silvia."

"Why not?" Silvia whined.

"Guilty feet have got no rhythm. You'd probably get embarrassed at how good I am anyway, especially in your state." Mark said in a deadpan voice.

Silvia giggled and pulled Mark closer. She spun both of them around, and Mark sighed before relenting and putting his hands on Silvia's small waist. He turned her and started to shuffle his feet in a quick one-two lateral motion to the quick salsa beat of the song. Silvia giggled again and let go of Mark's hand, spinning herself and rebounding off of Mark's frame. She moved her arms up and down and shimmied side-to-side with a face of deep concentration. Mark looked at Silvia as she danced like a rag doll being being carried by strings. He smirked darkly at the ridiculous sight, and decided to exaggerate her terrible dancing to make fun of her. Silvia lasted twenty seconds before collapsing on Mark as she released a mountain of giggles. She wrapped her arms around Mark and burrowed her face on his shoulder as she let out her laughter. Mark chuckled slightly at the incredulous sight and turned to see Arthur taking down the guitar solo to end the song.

When it ended, Arthur leapt off the stage, guitar in hand, and collapsed to the ground before rising back up and stumbling towards Mark. The crowd roared in delight and many of them patted Arthur on the back as he departed from the front of stage area towards Mark and a giggling Silvia.

"I told you I could do it, you stupid git! Just wait till idiot Spain sees how i destroyed one of his own people's songs!"

"Yeah, we can talk about it all on the way home. We've been here thirty minutes and we might as well burn down the building with what just happened."

"Is that a challenge?" Silvia bursted into another laughing fit as she patted Mark's shoulder hard.

"Okay, well. To my house, then."

"Gonna take us all on your bed, Mark. I didn't know you were that kind of guy."

"Well, if this guy right here was a little more open minded, it could happen." Mark said as he pushed the two towards the elevator door.

"Hey! I love everybody and everything!"

"Ooh! I'm so telling France you said that!" Silvia pointed in ecstasy at the blubbering Arthur.

Mark pushed the button and waited for the elevator door to open. When it did, he shoved both of them to the back wall, and Mark leaned on the chrome railing of the elevator. He pushed the button that had a one on it, and saw the lively jostling of dancers and the band disappear into the grey steel door of the elevator, erasing the image of partying, but not the effects.


	8. The Morning After In Grandma's House

Mark knew his pills were starting to lack a certain potency. After many months of taking the cerulean capsules, Mark was starting to worry that the power of the medicine was wearing off. He was starting to feel that awkward, transitional state of a person that does not know his own feelings. Sometimes, he felt his head was lost in a sand dune at a beach, and he was a wandering beach bum, searching with a metal detector for it. A sudden urgency would wash over him, as if the tide was coming early, and he started to feel anxious and snapped easily.

It did not help matters that he was in an enclosed taxi cab with two wasted individuals, singing as hoarsely as possible.

Fortunately, his doctor's appointment was coming the next day, and he couldn't wait for it much longer. Actually, he was close to jumping out of the cab, hoping the two in the car would roll farther and farther away from him like a snowball dropped at the summit of large mountain. Mark wiped his forehead and crossed his arms while the two people next to him swayed to the turning of the car. His cool facade was one he had mastered for a long time. He thought these situations were exercises of his self-control, and he would hate to lose a game to anybody, let alone to himself.

"Your words are hazy, Your thoughts are hazy, but this is one thing I'm sure of." Silvia sang like a chocking seagull.

"Everybody needs a best friend." Arthur sang with his words slurring the air around him.

"And I'm happy I'm yours." Arthur and Silvia leaned on Marks lap and whipped their heads towards each other. Silvia had a giant smile on her face, and continued singing a mile a minute, while Arthur swayed in place, rubbing Mark's arm incessantly. He turned his head towards the man in the middle and narrowed his eyes.

"What're you lookin' at, you bloody sack of salmon." Arthur said.

"Just thinking of selling you to the government as torture devices." Mark said as he covered his mouth with his hands and coughed. Silvia stopped her singing briefly to catch a giggling fit. With Arthur beginning to pour on curse after curse, Silvia singing faster than a rocket-launched Frisbee, and Mark stringing along threats and promises towards the two, the cab was bursting at the oil-soaked seams with the stench of alcoholic breath and out-of-tune caroling. The cab stopped in front of the Skyfall Condominiums, and Silvia ran out. She flew towards the double doors and waited in front of the elevator by hopping in place with a smile pasted on her.

Arthur stumbled out of the cab and limped towards the revolving doors. He tripped on his own red-sneaker wearing feet and lays flat on his back. He squints his eyes and thrusts his arm out at Mark, who was looming above him.

"Help me up, you silly wanker. Everything is spinning."

"Nah. Helping you up would only make it worse. You'll just have to crawl." Mark said with a smirk on his face.

"You-you idiot. Help me up, or i will force the devil upon you and cause the worst death imaginable."

"I've already seen all the Transformers. Plus, sleeping with you should be punishment enough."

"That's exactly what F-Francis said after that one night. How do you know that?"

"I secretly filmed you. Gotta make a living somehow."

Mark reached down and heaved the drunk Brit onto his feet and put an arm around him. Arthur leaned on his shoulder and rolled his head back and forth like a bobble head on permanent nodding mode.

"Iggy, Bring him over here. Hey Mark, it's like, really warm in here. Can we just get some drinks. I mean, it's really sunny in here." Silvia said in a rapid fire ramble.

"If we can get to my room, we can do anything you want."

"Did you here that Iggy? Looks like were having a fun night." Silvia rolled her tongue and and leaned towards young Englishman who was succumbing to sleep. Silvia tilted her head and leaned in further to see Arthur's eyes disappearing behind his wrinkled eyelids. Silvia took her hand and placed it on Arthur's face. She shook it vigorously and he moaned in confusion.

"C'mon Iggy. Don't sleep. The night's still young. Mark," Silvia sprung her back straight and looked straight at Mark's slightly dilated eyes."We're gonna need to borrow your apartment, and make me coffee.

"Make your own coffee. We're all going to my bed so no one sleeps with someone on accident."

Silvia giggled again and rocked herself back and forth on the back railing of the elevator. "You're so silly Mark. How can we not sleep with each other. We are the most attractive people in the world!"

"Well, I guess we could always try handcuffs."

* * *

Mark knew he was going to have trouble sleeping tonight. The young, slightly distressed man looked at the two drunk figures dancing in front of him in front of the illuminated outline of the skyline, barely emanating an orange glow. Silvia was speaking as fast as a raging rapid in the Amazon, and Arthur was crawling towards his guitar, yelling about being in the American Revolutionary War. He looked at the empty picture frame on the marble counter and bit his index fingernail. he shifted his lazy gaze towards the two, and saw that Arthur was using his guitar as a musket. Silvia laughed like she saw a dinosaur juggling a jeep while repetitive carnival music played in her head.

"Okay, you!" Mark pointed to Arthur who was still on the ground, clutching his guitar. "Stop reenacting Platoon. You! Take some Nyquil suppositories. We're all going to bed."

"Whoo! About time. Iggy! It's time to go."

"But, what about my America?" Arthur said in a high=pitched voice like a five-year-old who missed out on the Easter egg hunt.

"You can grovel for it later. We are all going to _sleep_, Silvia."

"But, I have so much energy. I mean, look at it." Silvia gestured towards the large window. "There's s much to do here, and it's only three in the morning. What about all that graffiti. Can we paint on walls, Mark? I just want to dance."

"No. We're going to sleep. We can try all of your stuff later."

"You can't stop me, Mark. I can't...stop...dancing!"

Mark dumped a blue oval tablet into a purple cup and filled it to the plastic brim with tap water. He rushed to Sylvia who was still jerking her arms in a punching style. He walked behind her and grabbed her by her shoulders. Mark pressed his forearms onto Silvia's slender ones, causing her to stop moving. He took the cup and tilted it towards Sylvia's mouth while she looked down at the inside of the cup. She did not resist and took in the cups contents. She took the cup into her hands and threw her head back, draining the cup. She turned around and smiled at Mark as she rubbed her hand on Mark's chest.

"Mark. Your suppose to take the blue pill. Not me!" Silvia barked out a laugh.

"It's sleeping pills, Silvia. I don't need help in things like that. Now, lets go to bed." Mark prodded the Hispanic woman towards his bedroom. He reached down and forced Arthur's hand away from the red and blue guitar. Arthur growled in frustration and tried to fight off Mark's diamond-strong grip. Mark reaffirmed his grip and yanked Arthur's blue neck collar, causing Arthur shout in pain.

"No! London!. Get me back, you bloody imbecile. I'll decapitate you like that stupid church-rat!" Arthur shouted as he lunged towards his guitar.

Mark trudged on towards his room. He entered it and flung the stumbling Arthur onto the bed. He gingerly pushed Silvia and she plopped onto the bed like an apple falling off of a tree with soft thudding sound. He looked up and turned towards the open window of the dark room. The monotonous buzz of the soft breeze mixed with the few scurrying cars rumbling in the distance invaded the room. Mark sat on bed and looked at the two laying down. Arthur was on the verge of passing out, and Silvia was also starting to nod her head in a meaningless attempt at staying awake.

"Mark, you want us all asleep? That' s, like, so weird." Silvia drew out the sentence, dying like a trumpeter losing breath.

"You're all going to sleep. I'm staying up." Mark said as he stood up and moved towards the open doorway.

"But, wait. You'll be by yourself." Mark turned around and saw Silvia's elevated head over the pillow. Arthur was dead to the world, as far as he could see.

"Yes. Finally. Now, can you just behave. You'll feel better in the morn-actually, you'll probably feel like crap. So, best to sleep now." Mark moved through the doorway and closed the white door. He stood there for a second, inspecting the air for any stray sound waves that lost themselves from Silvia's mouth. After hearing the placid silence, he walked over to the large expanse of his living room and turned on the television. He threw himself onto the couch, and grabbed the small book on the coffee table, losing his train of thought to the flat words on the white pages.

* * *

The sharp scream caused Mark to jerk the mug holding his scalding coffee and splash on the porcelain rim. The small droplets steamed as they fell towards the previously immaculate hardwood floor. Mark grimaced in disdain at the small mess, but he snapped out of his reverie and put the mug down. He ran towards the source of the scream, and he flung open the door to find a frazzled Latina women in the corner of the room and pointing at the Brit on the ground that was rubbing his head, a look of manufactured pain glazing his face.

"Jesus Christ, you want me to get kicked out, don't cha?" Mark said with a hint of anger in his voice.

"Where am I? Did I just sleep with you two? Oh my god. I just gang banged, didn't I?" Silvia said faster than tornado mowing down the plains of mid-west America. Mark looked at her like she was dog with three heads; his watermelon-green eyes flickering from the huddled woman in the corner to the groaning Brit still laying on the floor.

"Woman, calm down. Nobody did anything or anyone yesterday." Silvia was not

"God! Give me back my virginity!" Silvia ran out of the room with her hands placed on the side of her head. Mark turned and saw the bed stripped of most of it's sheets. He approached Arthur, who was laying on the floor, moaning in pain. He covered himself with the dislodged sheets and was face-down. His light blue blazer was thrown to the far corner of the spacious room, and he was in a white undershirt and black dress pants. His blond hair was in spiky layers and poked through the edge of the sheet he used to half-covered himself. Mark reached down and flung the sheets onto the bed and loomed over the grimacing Arthur.

"What the hell did you do on my bed last night?" Mark asked.

"That girl is insane! She kicked me off the bed and just ran off like tha-."

"Answer my question. Who did you do last night?" Mark smirked towards Arthur as he slowly lifted himself to his feet with the assistance of the sturdy bed.

"What? Are you insane like that crazy girl? A gentleman doesn't do anything in a state like that."

"You robbed a hot-dog stand, urinated on a taxi cab, and grinded everyone at the club. And since when are you a gentleman?" Mark added nonchalantly.

"Wh-what? No, absolutely not. Don't tell me I did any of that." Arthur's face turned tomato-red and he held his head in his hands.

"Okay, you actually didn't do any of that. But, you did jump on a stage and pretend to be a revolutionary soldier. By the way, have better fantasies. That's just awkward." Mark pushed Arthur towards the door and he shouted in surprise. He held onto the door frame before walking out as gingerly as an injured deer. Mark followed closely behind him as they walked into the room, lit by the invisible sun that was shrouded in the grey blanket of clouds that plastered the sky. It was Fortunate for the two hungover individuals, who would have practically melted if they were blinded by the giant light bulb of the solar system.

Silvia was running like a chicken without a head around the large room. She was blabbering Hispanic nonsense into the thick, alcohol infused air. Currently, she was on her knees and poked her head underneath the couch before shooting up like a rocket to her feet. She ran towards the marble counter and scanned the top while rubbing it with her hands.

"Where's my purse? I need my phone!" Silvia shouted in despair. She turned to Arthur and Mark.

"Well, maybe you lost it at-" Arthur slowly started, but he was interrupted by a livid Silvia

"Don't talk to me, you pervert! I thought I could trust you." Silvia pointed at the shocked Englishman.

"I told you I did nothing. We didn't even take our clothes off." Arthur gasped and rubbed his forehead.

"Okay fine. I'll check later. Right now, I need my phone and some Aspirin. My head is killing me." Silvia groaned and rested her head onto the cool counter top, feeling a small reprieve in her steel-hard hangover.

"I'll call it." Mark said

Thumbing the cool screen of the phone in his pocket, Mark pulled it out of the rough pocket interior. He pressed Silvia's number that he received the day before, and heard the monotonous ring tone filling the dearth of sound in the hostile room of alcohol-induced pain and sexual tension. Soon, he head a crackle of life, and a voice funneled into his ear canal. Mark softly greeted the voice.

"He says he knows you." Mark said to Silvia, whose head lifted up from it's resting position in curiosity like a cat hearing a strange noise. Mark continued to talk quietly into the phone.

"Yes. I am. I'm glad she's talked about me so much in the day I've known her," Mark nodded his head. "Yes. Yes. I am. Oh really! I didn't know that." Mark turned his head toward Arthur, whose head was in his hands as he sat on the snow-colored couch. "So, you wanna talk to him or her first? Oh, okay. Here he is."

Mark took the phone and touched Arthur's pale knuckle with it. "It's for you."

"Arthur furrowed his thick eyebrows and sighed in exasperation. "Why the bloody hell would this person want to talk to me for. Just give it to Silvia."

"He says he want's to talk to you." Mark shook the phone in his hands.

Arthur took the phone and almost crashed it onto his cheek, inadvertently pressing the speaker button on the phone. "Hello, who is this?" he asked.

Mark had thought the voice over the phone was benevolent enough. He had seemed kind, and was genuinely worried about Silvia. It caused Mark to reflect on the niceness of the stranger, and he decided that he had deserved to talk to anyone that came into contact with her the night before. However, Mark was put into a state of confusion when the voice flew out of the phone and into the tense atmosphere of the apartment. What had surprised Mark, however, was not the phone's speaker being turned on, but Arthur's reaction to the voice. He gasped his shoulders bulked up in shock, like he had seen a ghost pop out in front of his very emerald-green eyes. His knuckles and cheeks became pale-white and then almost instantaneously turned into a mysterious beet red.

"Angleterre! How are you mon ami!" The cheerful voice blasted out in broken, European accent laced English.

Mark became worried when Arthur slumped over his knees and became limp as he dropped the phone onto the cool floor.

* * *

**A/N: Well, another chapter down. As always, don't be afraid to leave any suggestions and ideas for the newbie, and review! It's quick, easy, and even fun! Good Luck.**


	9. Fake!

Just wanted to let everyone know the story is going good. KEep up everything and don't forget to check out other stories of mine!


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